


Hope Springs in Winter.

by Warwick



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 21:18:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warwick/pseuds/Warwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do not regret life, for it is the only thing that truly is ours."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hope Springs in Winter.

**"Do not regret life, for it is the only thing that truly is ours."**

 

The great hall was filled with people and noise; she could not see it yet, but she could hear the muffled noise and feel the commotion of the people waiting for her arrival. _Queen Sansa, Queen Sansa, Queen Sansa, that is who you are,_ she said to herself, over and over again, hoping the words would sink in, hoping and groping inside of her for the courage to get her through the day.

 

Sansa had held court once before in her life as Queen Regent, and as she had not enjoyed it the first time, she knew she was not going to enjoy it this time either. The long hours, the tedium, the demands, the complaints…She had an endless supply of patience within her, a virtue cultivated during the long years she spent at the Vale; yet even her refined diplomacy and cold determination could not rid her of the sense that what she was performing was no more than duty, and try as she might –for her sake, for her brother's sake, for the people of the North- she could find no pleasure in the task. And that made the task less than pleasant.

 

She looked down at her silver-grey velvet gown, then raised her hands to feel at her hair; she touched the pin that graced her shoulder right above her left breast. She felt as ready as she would ever be. One last, deep breath and a minute later found her walking through the crowds that parted as she made her way to the dais at the far end of the hall. She had her eyes fixed on her target, the large, marble chair that was erected as if springing from the very ground in the middle of the dais. Another minute had her sitting on the chair. She felt, rather than saw Ser Marten placing the large sword on her lap and with that she was ready to begin, whether she wanted to or not.

 

She received the courtesies of high lords and gracious ladies with a smile on her face and a kind word on her lips; she promised them favors with a polite inclination of her head; she dismissed the insolent demands with cold eyes and curt words. She listened to the stories of small-folk from all over the kingdom; she shook her head at their sorrows, expressed her regrets with downcast eyes, promised them help with a serious face. Not once did she leave the cold chair that day, and she cursed her little brother all the while she had to hold back the impulse to scream at the men and women sitting before and underneath her.

 

As the day drew at an end, Sansa began waking from her queenly stupor; her eyes saw that the crowd was now consisted mainly of her knights, ladies of her court and lords that were her guests; the last of the men kneeled before her when the clock struck the time for supper. Sansa debated whether she should dismiss the man and be done for the day; a look on his warn face and battered clothes, however, convinced her to stay while the rest of the court repaired to the dining hall, leaving her alone in the large room with Ser Marten and the five of her personal guard.

 

The man, realizing the favor the queen has chosen to bestow upon him by extending the hours of her court bowed even deeper on the stairs of the dais. When Sansa beckoned him to stand up, the man drew up to his considerable height and with an inclination of his head, spoke to Sansa with an accent she immediately recognized as that of a man from the land of Westeros.

 

"Thank you for your favor, your Grace; I hope you will find your kindness and patience amply repaid, once I have conveyed to you the message with which I am graced to deliver", said the man, and Sansa knew this was no man of the small-folk she had before her. Another look at his clothes told her that the man had indeed travelled far and for long; yet under the dust and creases, the cloak was rich velvet, the tunic fine silk and the jerkin boiled leather. Her glance could not reveal this high-born's house without appearing overly interested, an so Sansa decided to stay silent, knowing that silence yielded at times far better results than persistent questioning.

 

"Your Grace, I am Ser Davos Seaworth, Hand of King Stannis of Westeros and I come to you with a request and a promise."

 

Sansa felt rather then looked surprised; she knew that was so, for she had spent many years building her façade, many, long and painful years. Her mind was racing, jumping from possibility to possibility, trying to guess the reason for Ser Davos's visit before he managed to surprise her once more.

 

Of course the Queen Regent already knew the man by reputation and had his cloak born the sigil of his house she would not think of questioning the truth of the man's words. Yet as it was, she found she could not trust the Ser that was standing before her. She could not think of any reason why the King of Westeros would ever choose to communicate with her by sending a messenger all the way from Dragonstone, rather than dispatching his message with a raven. Sansa voiced her concern in no uncertain words; diplomacy was an invaluable weapon, but frankness, she found, was at times infinitely more effective.

 

The man straightened his back as if offended, but the smile he wore on his face spoke nothing more than mild surprise mingled with respect for the young, clever Lady Sansa Stark. With slow, deliberate movements, he put his hand in the inside of his jerkin and pulled the sealed envelope his King had entrusted him with. One of the queen's men reached for the letter, took it from the man's hands and after examining it discreetly, climbed the stairs of the dais to where his queen sat and handed her the letter, secured with seal wax shaped in the proud dancing stag of House Baratheon.

 

Sansa opened the letter and schemed through its contents with seemingly bored disdain. When she closed the letter, her eyes were still empty, yet her heart was racing. Her mind was still clear, however, as she turned her eyes to the Hand of King Stannis, this time a welcoming smile on her lips.

 

"You must, of course, understand the apprehensions of a woman, even if she be a queen, Ser Davos. The years of the war are behind us, but not by long. I welcome you in Winterfell, Lord Hand. You will enjoy the king's hospitality for as long as your business requires for you to stay, and for longer if that is your wish. I suppose you are aware of the contents of the letter?" she asked, for she felt that she had talked too long and that her voice may betray her emotions any minute now.

 

"I am, your Grace."

 

"Unfortunately, I cannot repay your patience with an immediate answer, Ser."

 

Sansa felt her irritation rise at the silence of Ser Davos. She filled the void by rising from the cold, uncomfortable and handing her sword to Ser Marten, always three steps behind and at her beck and call for as long as she bore the pin that signified her status as Queen Regent. She walked over to the Hand that served another King and motioned for him to follow her through the door of the great hall and to the corridor that led to the dining hall, now filled with people eating eagerly, talking with zest, laughing with warmth.

 

"Ser Davos, you may eat and rest. You and your men shall be made comfortable soon enough; the letter will be discussed tomorrow. Until then, Lord Hand."

 

Sansa let her legs lead her to her room; as soon as the door shut the rest of the world out of her bedroom and away from her tired eyes and sore ears, Sansa wept tears of sad resignation.

 

Jon heard a light knock, turned around while buttoning up a clean tunic and was rewarded with the sight of a bright red head peeking around the edge of the half-opened door to his room. He was starting to despair that a meeting with Sansa after a long day holding court would be out of the question, yet there she stood, fresh-faced and beautiful.

 

"May I come in?", she asked, ever the polite and correct lady.

 

"Please, do."

 

Sansa came into his solar wearing the most beautiful of her Stark-colored dresses, closed the door behind her and came up to Jon; she planted a gentle kiss on his mouth, but withdrew before he had time to reciprocate to sit on one of the chairs before the fireplace. The queen regent drew her legs before her chest and rested her chin on her knees. Jon noticed for the first time after a long time signs of fatigue in the blue eyes of his wife, and he immediately knew that the day had been a disaster.

 

He sat on the larger chair facing hers and stretched forward to put a hand on her head, stroking her hair and soothing her.

 

"It can't have been that bad…" he said, but regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. Sansa didn't seem to have heard him; indeed, her eyes, gleaming under the fire-light seemed far-off and detached. He stroked her hair once more and moved back on his chair, placing his hands on the arms, savoring the heat and comfort. She would talk to him when she was ready, he thought, and he could not bring himself around to worry for his queen.

 

His eyes had began to close, his mind having relax in the warm comfort of the room and the soothing company of his wife, when Sansa spoke, her voice low and gentle.

 

"I received a letter from Stannis today. His Hand came all the way from Dragonstone to deliver it to me personally. I checked with one of the knights that stayed behind after he moved on to King's Landing, Ser Tomas Regesworth. He is who he says he is."

 

"What was the letter about? Anything happened to Arya?"

 

Sansa snorted, an unladylike, crude sound, yet she knew Jon would never mind it.

 

"What could possibly happen to Arya? It is the people of Dragonstone I pity, and poor Gendry Baratheon."

 

"It is a wonder how, despite all her protestations to the contrary, she grew up to be a lady alright; a princess, at least, and soon a queen."

 

Jon smiled fondly at the thought of his sister, the wild, clever, mischievous Arya. No matter that they were cousins now; Arya would always be his little sister.

 

"One may be a queen without ever being a lady. And I may have yielded a sword once, but Arya wouldn't be able to yield a needle to save her life!"

 

Jon's smile was positively wolfish when Sansa raised her eyes to him once again; she was afraid her lord husband was enjoying their conversations about Arya a little too much.

 

Sansa furrowed her brows, ignored his smile and went on.

 

"As it is, the letter does not concern Arya. It does, however, concern another one of our siblings. King Stannis considers himself indebted to us for having given him so beautiful and intelligent a wife for his son, and he is positive that she will make an excellent queen. So he is in a hurry to return the favor, by supplying us with another princess in the place of the one we lost."

 

With every word that left Sansa's mouth, her voice became more and more tinged with sarcasm and mockery. It was common knowledge among the members of the Stark family that Lady Sansa despised the cold, calculating, demanding King Stannis, and giving Arya's hand to his nephew had cost her the world, and that despite Arya's surprising desire to wed the young Baratheon heir. Sansa would have never admitted it, not even to Jon, but she missed her only sister dearly.

 

"He means to marry his daughter to Rickon" said Jon. It was not a question; most certainly not a surprise. The time he had spent with Lord Stannis at the Wall had served to show him that the King of Westeros was power-hungry, vicious and calculating on a sunny summer-time day with little work to do. Now that the heir to the House Targaryen had wed Sansa Stark, he felt the power of the King of Winter becoming more threatening than ever, and in spite of having the dragon and the wolf breathing down his neck, he decided sacrificing the one stag was a small price to pay to keep the rest of the herd safe, even If that stag was his only daughter.

 

"He asks for our consent in a marriage between Rickon and Lady Shireen Baratheon, his only daughter. What are we to do Jon?" Sansa's voice sounded unexpectedly sad and tired, her eyes closed underneath the weight of her worries, her head rested now heavily on her knees. Jon left his chair and knelt before his lady wife, taking her hands and his, kissing her cheeks, her forehead, her lips. He wanted to soothe her, to share her worries, to unburden her mind that knew too much for its young age.

 

"Who is that girl, Jon? No-one has seen her in a very long time. Arya has mentioned her in one of her letters, but she said no more than she was a silent little thing that did not like swords. Was she even at the wedding? What should we do? I thought we were done with wars and spies and ill-will and under-handedness. Why won't they just leave us alone?"  
Jon kissed the tears from Sansa's eyes and tried to remember who that girl Shireen Baratheon exactly was.

 

He had seen her at the Wall many times during the time he spent with Stannis. He had never spoken to her and the girl itself was too young back then to command his full attention. What he did remember of her was her blue Baratheon eyes, the darkened skin that covered part of her face and neck, the quiet smile she gave to him whenever they chanced to meet, the air of loneliness that seemed o cling around her arms like a heavy black cloak. He didn't know what to hope for in such a woman, as might have taken the place of the girl, and he sighed, his heart going out to poor Rickon. The young King would have little choice in the matter, he feared, and sighed again.

 

"We should talk about it with Bran and Meera. And Rickon deserves to have a say in this, as well."

 

"I told the man I was going to answer him tomorrow…"

 

"Sansa! Surely, you could have bought poor Rickon a little more time!"

 

Jon looked at his beautiful wife with mock exasperation as she put her hands over her eyes, looking quiet guilty and more than a little embarrassed.

 

"What was I supposed to do? We cannot ignore Stannis forever, and the sooner this is done with, the less we will have to do with this awful, awful man!"

 

Sansa's eyes were filled with tears as Jon kissed her lips once more, this time more passionately than before. She responded with equal fervor, yet her tears would not stop from falling. She hugged her husband tightly with both arms, burying her face in the small of his neck, ashamed for her weakness.

 

"Do not worry, my love."

 

Jon's voice was little more than a whisper.

 

"All shall be fine. Tomorrow morning we shall all meet at your solar, and then we will decide what is to be done."

 

Sansa's voice sounded muffled when she spoke again, her breath warm against Jon's skin.

 

"Rickon…should we tell Rickon?"

 

"He is no boy anymore."

 

Sansa let one last sob escape her throat, before leaning silent, exhausted against her husband's chest. She was safe there, she knew.

 

Shireen looked at herself in the mirror on last time before leaving the room to go downstairs, where she was expected to break her fast with her lord father and his knights. She was wearing one of the dresses her mother had ordered for her a few days after her marriage was announced. It was simple black velvet, with long sleeves that trailed down all the way to the floor and black myrish lace around the square neck. The Baratheon colors "so that she would not forget who she is, when her father would take her to the north to throw her in the wolf-pit". She chose not to heed her mother's words, and wore the colors with pride all the same. She had let her hair down, as she usually did. It was not the fashion for a lady of her stamp, of course, but she preferred to be looked down at for her lack of fashion than the path of dark, hard skin that covered her left cheek and part of her neck. It was not the comments that bothered her; not really; not anymore. Yet she was determined to spare the people around her the gruesome sight as much as she could, and she would rather not be reminded of it herself.

 

Shireen had come to terms with the patch- that was her way of calling the stretch of dark skin that covered her young face and made her ugly, she thought. She did not mind the opinion of others as much as she used; she did not cry at every slight she heard anymore; she had stopped cursing herself for surviving a long time ago. Yet she could not forget it; it was there and she had to live with it and the realization pained her every single time. All she could do was hide as much of the blemish as possible; for the sake of her family; for her sake.

 

As she made her way downstairs, she could not help but wonder at her father's cunning at achieving such a wedding for her. She was 20, almost an old maid, maimed and a Baratheon. Her father may have been king of Westeros, the family was considered cursed, however. Murderers of kings, and murdered kings, kin-slayers, heathens, cursed by the gods-the old and the new. Shireen had heard them all and then some; her family was not popular among the banner-men and the small-folk. And while her considerable dowry would have been enough to tempt even the most powerful lords of the Seven Kingdoms to turn a blind eye to her family's reputation, it was Shireen's reputation which rendered her marriage prospects bleak, to say the least.

 

So when the day came when her father entered her room one grey, humorless morning, announcing her betrothal to King Rickon of Winter, Shireen laughed a hysterical laugh of utter horror. She knew her father well enough to understand that this was no joke on his part; he was being serious, yet perhaps mistaken? She had asked him again and again, until the King of Westeros looked at her with eyes small and menacing and told her to start packing, before leaving her room and closing shut the door behind him. Shireen had cried that day more than she had cried in a very long time. The tears that ran down her cheeks and warmed her cold skin were tears of relief, and of fear, of anticipation, curiosity, regret, shame. She cried for herself and for her parents, for her dear Ser Davos and for stupid old Patchface; she cried for home, until her eyes, swollen and aching, closed to dreams of the North and what would be her new home.

 

Back to the present, she sat by her father's side on the large wooden table that the inn-keeper had reserved for the King and his men.

 

"Good morning, your Grace" she said as her father's knights made room in the bench for her to sit; 'too much room" she thought bitterly.

 

Her father returned her greeting with a nod acknowledging her existence, delivered with equal parts indifference and annoyance at having interrupted his breakfast.

 

Shireen soon found that the closer they got to Winterfell, the less her appetite got. She was now playing with her fork and the honey-tart that lay untouched in her plate. Honey-milk made her sick and wine was unbearable, so it came to pass that when she entered Winterfell through the main gates and while hundreds of pairs of eyes were focused on her –"not on you, on your patch', she thought- she was too weak to climb of her own horse. Her legs gave way beneath her and she would have found herself face down in the mud If not for a pair of strong hands that caught her mid-air, steadied her and straightened her clothes in a matter of seconds. When she raised her eyes in search of her savior's face, her savior was nowhere to be seen. Or maybe he was, but there was no way of knowing who had been; for before her stood in line what she thought must have been the most beautiful family she had ever beheld.

 

Her good-sister Arya had spent many a night talking about her family; her parents, who died during the great war all those years ago; her brother Robb, the Young Wolf, who died betrayed by the very people he thought his friends; of her half-brother Jon, the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, who was not her brother at all, but her cousin and her sister's husband and the Hand of the King; of her crippled brother Brandon and his beautiful wife, Meera, and their children; of her youngest brother, Rickon, and his wolf that he called Shaggydog. Arya was an endless fountain of stories and Shireen liked her for her spirit, as well as her kind heart; for even the wild, strong, unladylike Arya Stark had a beautiful heart as well as a beautiful face.

 

She bowed to no-one in particular and thanked the air for helping her off her horse, before she remembered her courtesies and turned her head looking for her father, her eyes speaking her frustration, for while she knew she had to pay her respects to the King, she did not know who the King was. Arya's stories about her family never reached the part where she described their looks, and while she had told her that she looked nothing like her older sister, there was very little she could go upon to recognize the King.

 

Her eyes begged for her father's attention, but he seemed too busy climbing off his horse and fixing his cloak to pay any attention to her pleading gaze. She took a deep breath and turned to her hosts, determined to be as polite as her circumstances aloud her.

 

Sure enough, there was Lady Sansa starring down at her, her auburn hair falling in heavy locks down her shoulders, free and beautiful. Her eyes were a deep, clear blue and her face the most beautiful face a woman could ever wish for…or a man, for that matter. Under long eyelashes her eyes were cold and her gaze steady, her figure was tall and regal, her dress as beautiful as her person. To her right, and many inches shorter, sat Bran, the crippled brother-man really. He sat in a wooden wheelchair, his long, lean legs looking rather lifeless under his breeches, his hands making up for the loss by being all too fidgety. He had a book on his lap and he kept fingering the cover and the various pages. His face remained smiling throughout, however. Bran had a nice smile. It revealed a set of perfect white teeth and caused his nose to wrinkle in the most charming way. His clear blue eyes shone and his dark hair captured the sun-rays that escaped through the clouds. He was lovely, Shireen thought, as was his wife that hovered protectively by his side. She was a tall woman, too, but not nearly as tall as the Queen Regent. Her hair was a chestnut brown and so were her eyes, eyes too big for her small, delicate face. From behind her skirts Shireen could make out two small, identical heads of dark hair and brown eyes. Lord Bran and Lady Meera were parents to baby boy twins apparently, and if Shireen was at all a judge of character she could tell the little ones were mischievous to say the least.

 

Shireen bowed her head before the queen, calling her "your grace" and asking for her favor, and the queen compensated her with a smile that did not quite reach her eyes, but was still polite enough, and by calling her "princess", inclining her head slightly forward and to her directions. Her greeting with Bran and Meera felt rather less stiff. She bowed, of course, and called them by their titles, but the young couple returned the greeting with much brighter and truer smiles, while the little boys kissed her hands and called her "Printheth Thireen" in what must have been their best, most serious countenance.

 

To Meera's right, however, and a few feet away, stood huddled together the source of Shireen's discomfort. No less than three young men, all about the same age, so different in colors and characteristics, however, that would be ridiculous to even try and guess who the young King was based on the rest of his family.

 

Her eyes were drawn first by the one that stood confidently in the middle. His eyes and hair were dark, the same shade that boasted Bran's head, and his complexion fare; he reminded her strangely of Arya and her little ones. He had a handsome face, if somewhat melancholy eyes and his figure was tall, muscular and proud. Shireen noticed one of his hands was burned, but her eyes did not linger on the sight. Even the beautiful have scars, she thought, albeit on the inside of their palms. Maybe he was the King, then again she could not overlook the fact that the other two looked slightly younger than him.

 

Both the other men, standing at either side of the handsome dark man, had blue eyes, fair hair and complexion, and yet two people could not look more dissimilar. The one was tall and lean, eyes sparkling with mischief as they scrutinized her face, skipping over her maimed face and lingering on the curves of her hips and breasts. The third man was not as tall, but certainly well-proportioned, more muscular and broader than the other. His cold blue eyes and fair hair, shot through with a rare pale red, told her that he was certainly a brother of Sansa's, even though the shape of his face, his mouth and his nose belonged to Arya and the dark man that still stood in the middle of the three.

 

Shireen was going to risk it, since no-one seemed to be coming to her rescue any time soon. She stepped forward, bowed the way her septa had told her was appropriate when greeting a King, and then stepped back, searching with her eyes for a reaction that would reveal to her the identity of the King.

 

Three pairs of eyes scrutinized her with interest. The handsome dark man smiled at her after a while and stepped forward, hand extended, inviting her to take his hand and look him in the eyes.

 

Maybe the Gods had pitied her, thought Shireen. Maybe they decided to make up for her patch. If that was the case, she was glad her betrothed seemed so kind and looked so handsome; surely this was not over-compensation; or was it?

 

As soon as Shireen took the young Lord's hand, feeling the warmth and security of his touch, she felt a long breath leave her lungs, a breath she had not realized she was holding. The King must have sensed her relief, for his smile became even brighter than before, his eyes more shiny.

 

"Princess" he said; his voice was calm and even, and there was softness in the way he pronounced the word, an accent of the North that made her skin tingle with excitement.

 

"It is a pleasure to finally meet you. I am Jon Targaryen, Hand of the King, and at your disposal while you remain a guest here in Winterfell."

 

Jon Targaryen; the bastard-who-was-not. Then who was the King? More importantly, why wouldn't he respond when she greeted him?

 

"This is Lord Theon Greyjoy, Princess, an old friend of the family- a part of it, really. He is heir to the Iron Isles and Master of Coin for the King in the North."

 

The young man with the dangerous eyes inclined his head towards her direction with mild disregard, but before Shireen had a chance to take offence, Jon Targaryen was once more addressing her with questions and leading her away towards the place where his father and men where now gathering, presumably to greet the just-arrived King of Westeros. Soon, queen Sansa was by their side, wearing what seemed like the brightest of her smiles, inclining her head in silent recognition and allowing sweet words of welcome for her visitors.

 

King Stannis surprised his daughter by kissing the back of Queen Sansa's hand and by bowing his head in front of the Hand, who did the same and withdrew beside his Queen. The same ritual took place while greeting Bran and Meera –Shireen found herself thinking of them by their names already, feeling that inexplicable warmth that fills your body when you know you are among friends-, but when King Stannis came to stand before Theon Greyjoy, the man knelt and mumbled words of welcome, as little at ease as any-one could possibly be.

 

At the end of the little neat row that had by then be created while the greetings took place stood the King of Winter. Shireen sighed inwardly; of course it was him. All she could do was thank the Seven for Jon Targaryen and his kind ways. The man, she realized, would not have acknowledged her even if she had knelt before him with both feet on the ground and tears in her eyes.

 

The King was young, no more than twenty years of age, yet his features had none of the boyish charm that so often graced the faces of handsome youths. His jaw was set, his eyes hard, his hand when he gripped that of her lord father's was strong and resolute. His reddish blond hair fell in unruly locks over his eyes, and he had no beard that she could see of. He was positively handsome, like the rest of his family, but unlike the rest of them, there was little on his face that could help Shireen form an estimation of his character.

 

The Queen Regent, she thought, seemed proud, intelligent and what must be considered as the perfect model of the perfect lady. The Hand of the King, whom Arya had told her was her favorite brother, wore his gentleness and kindness on his warm eyes and welcoming smile. And the young couple she already considered her friends, without being able to explain to herself why.

 

Theon Greyjoy, she decided, was best to stay clear off and she was not surprised to find the same feeling applied to her betrothed. Her heart sunk as she followed her father within the castle, realizing she had not heard half of the pleasantries her hosts had exchanged with them.

 

Once within, Shireen found her attention claimed by Meera, who welcomed her with a smile more cordial than before and words of support.

 

"I know getting married can prove rather overwhelming, but both Sansa and I are here to help you." she said as she motioned for her and her servants to follow her down a large corridor and up a flight of winding stairs.

 

"You will be sleeping on the second floor; I hope you like butter yellow, Lady Shireen?"

 

"I do." said Shireen, surprised her hostess could have been so very spot on in her estimation. As good as her word, when Meera opened the door to her room, Shireen found herself in one of the prettiest, certainly the most comfortable room she had ever seen. The floor was covered with furs to sustain what warmth the fireplace produced, but the covers of the bed, the upholstery of the chairs, even the curtains were a light buttery yellow, that allowed the light of the sun to fill the room and make it look almost as bright as a sunny summer day in Dragonstone; no matter Winterfell was still covered by what they called "summer-time snow".

 

"It is beautiful. Thank you, Lady Meera."

 

"Please, call me Meera. May I call you Shireen?"  
"Of course. You have a beautiful family, Meera."

 

"Thank you. Although I will not keep you to your word. I will allow you some time to get to know them better. My two little angels are no angels at all!"

 

Shireen smiled and felt a certain sense of triumph; she thought she was right in thinking she would find a friend in Lady Meera. She now hoped the Queen would find her adequate enough as a betrothed, and perhaps the rest of her stay might not prove to be too bad; well, until the wedding-day came.

 

Bran spent the rest of the day after the King's arrival in the great hall, giving orders and talking with the men of Stannis Baratheon. He had ordered the kids to go play in the Godswood and not to leave until he sent for them, but he was feeling rather uneasy all the same. And where was Meera, anyway? He had not seen her since she took the princess upstairs to show her the room and what could they possibly be talking about that took all day?

 

"What did you think of the princess?" asked Theon Greyjoy. He had come to stand beside him and his face looked unusually warn.

 

"I thought her very kind; scared for the most part."

 

"Poor Rickon… But, she has a passable body, so I guess it might not be all that bad."

 

Bran smiled at Theon's crude remark but did not deign to answer. That was Theon, alright, and there was nothing he could do to change him. Gods know, they have tried.

 

"Are the men settled? The King?"

 

"Yes. He says he will rest until the feast begins."

 

Bran let a sigh of relief escape his mouth and turned to look at his friend once more.

 

"Do you think there is a chance his visit will not be an utter disaster?"

 

"A very small one, yes. Then again, I was born an optimist."

 

Brandon smiled a bitter smile while Theon patted his back, grabbed the handles of his chair and started navigating him through the crowds.

 

"Sansa wants us all in her room. Small council in her solar, she said."

 

He let Theon lead him through corridors and ramps and secret passages that led to the Queen's room –well, Sansa's room. When they closed the door behind them, Bran was surprised to find the whole family gathered, complete with the twins, Maester Samwell and Ser Marten.

 

"Well that does not seem like the small council." said Theon. "And what are the little monsters doing here?" he exclaimed, when his eyes fell on the twins, sitting on a chair before the fire-place, the model nephews of a model aunt. When they were satisfied she was not looking, they both revealed their tongues for Theon to see. His handsome face turned red, his fists clenched around the handles, but he kept his place in silence.

 

"You made them what they are", murmured Bran only for Theon to hear.

 

"And that is how the little heathens repay me!".

 

Theon's voice was a mixture of exasperation and fondness, yet his threatening eyes never left the twins.

 

"Oh, Bran, you are here. And you Theon, sit over there."

 

Sansa indicated the place on the table that they were to occupy and turned back to the pile of papers she had on her lap. When everybody had taken their seats and silence prevailed in the solar, Sansa stood and started pacing the room.

 

"That went rather well" said Jon in an attempt to break the silence that had soon turned rather too awkward.

 

Faithful old Sam shook his head in agreement and smiled at Jon, who smiled back at his old friend, relief showing plain on his face.

 

"Your Grace, it did go rather well. King Stannis seemed more or less his usual self, but the princess and Ser Davos seemed quite taken with the place."

 

"Oh, Shireen is wonderful" said his wife from opposite him at the table. "She will make a good wife and a good Queen."  
Theon snorted, but one look from Jon silenced him on the subject.

 

"Bran, what did you think?" asked Sansa, worry in her pretty blue eyes.

 

"I will have to agree with Sam. Both Ser Davos and the princess looked ready to cooperate. And the princess did look rather kind" he added for his wife's benefit, who gifted him with one of her special smiles.

 

"Ser Marten, how many men did King Stannis bring with him?"

 

"A hundred, you Grace. And ten servants for the Princess Shireen."

 

"Ten?" Sansa's voice was shrill and irritated.

 

"I am sure we can convince them to reduce the number to the absolute necessary; say two?" said the always diplomatic and level-headed Ser Marten.

 

"Do that!" said Sansa, rather calmer than she was before, but still visibly irritated.

 

"Now, Rickon. You will sit with the Princess tonight. Please, try and be polite; do try to get to know her. This is important. It is your wedding after all."

 

"Everything seems quite settled to me" said Rickon's calm, bored voice from the other head of the table. "Let me know when the wedding is to be and I shall be there."

 

He made a motion to stand from his chair, but Jon grabbed his wrist and forced him silently to sit back down.

 

The look on Rickon's face had not changed once during the welcoming ceremony and he still wore the same expression, despite being away from the unsettling stare of King Stannis and his men. That was not normal, even for his usually unsociable and taciturn little brother. To assume a face of indifference was a tactic he applied to most of his dealings with his subjects, lords and small-folk alike, yet not when he was among his own family. Bran was certain his kingly brother was displeased with the state of things, yet determined not to show it.

 

"He is but a boy" he thought to himself, and felt pity rise in his heart for his younger brother who had been through so much. "He just wants to be left in peace."

 

Jon seemed to be of the same mind as he, for once again he spoke to relieve the tension that was beginning to settle over the table.

 

"Rickon, I promise you; you will not marry the girl unless you want to. But, for you to decline her hand there must be a good reason. This alliance is important for both the North and Westeros. We cannot dismiss the girl on feeble grounds. And for you to find that you do not like her, you must first get to know her."

 

Bran smiled at Jon with heart on his lips. Their brother was wise in his words, and he only hoped that Rickon would see the sense in them before too long.

 

The Great Hall of the Castle of Winterfell was not to be recognized that night, so full of people and joy, filled with long mahogany tables and benches to accommodate the visitors; food was plentiful, wine even more so and the music lively and distinctly northern.

 

Jon was feeling rather lively, as well. It was a rare occurrence, having visitors at the castle, and he relished the opportunity to meet new people, inquire after old acquaintances, learn news from all over the realm. He was rather pleased to find old Ser Davos still standing and very much his usual clever self, and he was having a nice evening so far, sitting by the older man, hearing stories of his exploits as the Hand, and sharing with him some of his own.

 

"You are a lucky man Jon, to have such a beautiful lady wife."

 

"Thank you, Ser Davos; indeed, I believe I am. Yet you are the one blessed with worthy sons, and that is an even greater envy."

 

"They are good boys, the lot of them. My youngest is a little too wild, but still growing."

 

"Our youngest is rather wild, as well, Ser Davos." said Jon with a knowing smile.

 

When Ser Davos laughed at his remark –and Jon was certain the man was as sober as he was- he took it as a sign to continue talking on the subject, and so he found himself inquiring on princess Shireen the way a father seeks to find parallels between his child and the children of others. He soon found out that Shireen was very much as he remembered her as a child, being rather shy and not very sociable, but sill mindful of her courtesies, kind and intelligent; Ser Davos seemed in an odd way rather proud of her, as though he was father of the princess and not his lord liege.

 

"And what about our little wildling? He is much changed in appearance, although that is to be expected. I haven't had a chance to talk to him yet, however."

 

"Sansa has seen to it that he is a wildling no more. Yet old habits die hard; Rickon is very fond of the woods and horses and the only love relationship he has had so far is with Shaggydog –and he is a male direwolf…"

 

"I think you all have a love relationship with your direwolves. One has to look at the way Arya treats Nymeria; far more indulgent than she is with her children; all in all, far better than she treats her own husband."

 

"I was surprised not to see them among the members of court King Stannis brought along." said Jon, finding a way to breach the subject of the engagement and thanking the gods he didn't have to result to other methods, especially with Ser Davos, a man he respected and besides liked for who he was, which was more than he could say for most of the Lords he had met during his life as son of Eddard Stark.

 

"They will of course come for the wedding. King Stannis, however, finds it right that the period of the engagement will be passed in relative peace and quiet, so that the young people will get to know each other a little; see if they can get along and if they like each other well enough."

 

So King Stannis –or wise old Davos, at least- had the same preoccupations as they. Granted, Rickon was King, yet his reputation among highborns and small-folk alike was of dubious quality to say the least. Jon had heard of the stories told about his youngest brother, some of them fantastical in their very essence, others that could be true, but for their being totally false, and some others he found even he was inclined to believe in, considering Rickon did very little to contradict them. The "Wildling King of Winter" was the source of many tales and even more speculations, and besides those who respected the young ruler, thought him brave and capable, there were those who feared him too much to love him, and would seek to destroy him if given the chance. Ser Davos seemed to know all this, and he was apparently reluctant to give up the princess to a man who spurred so much contradiction around his name. Jon told himself to remind Rickon to thank the Gods he had a reputation, for it may prove to be the very thing to get him out of an unwanted marriage. To Ser Davos he said

 

"Does Princess Shireen like to dance?"

 

"Aye! And the most sure-footed little thing she is when she does!", said the old knight, and Jon was certain by then that Ser Davos considered Shireen as his very own. He smiled at the faithful old man, patted him on the back and left the bench with a mind to search for his lovely wife and dancing in his heart.

 

For the grand feast to celebrate their arrival, and to honor the Starks for their hospitality, Shireen put on her most beautiful dress. The skirt was made of black silk and the bodice of cloth of gold, the colors of House Baratheon not so discreetly displayed; yet she thought she looked as well as she could ever look. One of her maids pulled her hair over the left side of her face and braided it in an intricate style that covered discreetly the patch on her face, although regrettably left her neck exposed, and the patch there was much larger than the one on her face. She was beginning to regret her decision to pull her hair up, when in the corridor outside her room she chanced upon Brandon and Meera, looking both positively gleeful, looking in each other's eyes and enjoying what little time they had together before joining their visitors in the great hall. She gathered they had been waiting for her to escort them to the feast. She felt grateful for them for the third time that day, and gladly followed the couple through the maze that was the castle of Winterfell to the Great Hall. On their way there, Shireen had the chance to witness for herself what marital bliss was really like. Her parents led separate lives and showed few to no signs of affection towards each other. Their only common interest was Shireen, which spoke volumes in her mind, considering that they both paid her very little attention and even less affection; to criticize and correct her was all they were good for as parents, it seemed.

 

With Brandon and Meera things could not seem more different than they apparently were. Bran's eyes followed his wife wherever she went, and she seemed to respect and love her husband in the way only a woman courageous enough to marry a cripple could do; at least that was what Bran had said when Shireen remarked on how blessed he was to have such a lovely family. Shireen smiled and dismissed his words as modesty and in truth, she found it hard at that moment to think of anyone more deserving of happiness than Meera and Brandon Stark.

 

Shireen had inquired about the young couple to the servants, and all they had to say was how loving that little family was to each other –even though the little ones were rather mischievous- and how much the young couple had suffered during the years of the war. They had met when they were still children and had stuck together through thick and thin to return to Winterfell, restore their broken home and bring the scattered family back together. They had helped Sansa raise Rickon and were now working to restore the North to its former glory, when the Kings of Winter were the most powerful of all the Seven Kingdoms.

 

"And how do you like Winterfell so far, princess?" asked Bran while his wife wheeled his chair down another ramp were the stairs should have originally been.

 

"I have not had much chance to see it, my Lord. Please ask me in a couple of days, and hopefully I will be able to give you sincerely my favorable opinion."

 

They both laughed good-naturedly at her answer and Bran said he sincerely hoped she would be able to give the lace her favorable opinion. After a while, she felt in the company of the two as comfortable as she could ever be in a place that was not her home, and so, when she did enter the great hall, it was with a more or less genuine smile on her face, both her hair and the patch forgotten.

 

Shireen sat on the table upon the dais, between the King and Queen Sansa, who lost no time in engaging her in conversation. She asked her of her home, her mother, Arya and her family. She flashed a rather knowing and indulging smile when she related some of Arya's adventures in Dragonstone, but switched back to her polite smile almost immediately. Shireen sensed there was so much more to Lady Sansa than met the eye.

 

After a while, Lady Sansa excused herself and stepped off the dais to visit some of her other prominent visitors sitting in the tables scattered around the hall. During her absence Shireen fidgeted with her food, but never presumed to turn her head towards her betrothed, or engage him in conversation. King Rickon had been ignoring her as much as it is possible for one human to ignore another fully grown human that stood before their very own eyes. He had bowed his head at her direction when she sat beside him at the beginning of the night, but had not since made any sign that he knew she was there. For most of the evening he talked to her father in a cold, even voice about the rebuilding of Winterfell, the people of his kingdom, the losses they had endured during the long winter. Her father answered with similar comments about his own realm, adding pieces of information concerning the other kingdoms and their rulers, with an equal air of kingly authority. The conversation was at times interrupted by either Jon or Ser Davos, but the two Kings occupied each other for the most of the night, and Shireen felt grateful and relieved to be able to escape the notice of her father and her betrothed so easily and with so little effort on her part.

 

As the evening drew on and the music began, Shireen found herself wishing someone would ask her to dance. She knew the chances that one were her betrothed were slim, yet she could not help herself from hoping; she knew, had Bran been able to walk, he would have asked her; and if Ser Davos were not too tired he may just ask her yet. She was surprised to find her hand claimed by Lord Jon Targaryen before too long, and, after accepting his proposal for a dance with a shy smile, she had the pleasure of been swept around the floor by one of the most graceful men she had ever danced with. Jon was a skilled conversationalist, ready to speak and eager to listen. She soon found that the two of them had met before, when she was but a little girl and he Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Shireen was embarrassed to admit that she could not remember her time at the Wall, but Jon was surprised and pleased to find out, when he mentioned Ghost, that the girl still had a vague recollection of the large albino direwolf.

 

After dancing with the Lord Hand for almost half an hour, her hand was claimed by another Lord, a banner-man to the Starks, whom everybody called Smalljon. He was a handsome, strong, lively youth and Shireen enjoyed his conversation, if not his dancing, which was rather too vigorous for her more unused legs. She was glad to find herself in the arms of Ser Davos after dancing with Smalljon for close to an hour, chatting away with her favorite knight and laughing merrily at his jokes and anecdotes. After another half an hour has passed Shireen felt so sweetly tired and sleepy, she was ready to withdraw to her chambers, when she felt another hand on her shoulder and Ser Davos stepped away, after giving her one last smile, to allow King Rickon to dance with her.

 

She was certain her face spoke her surprise as loud as the music in the great hall, yet the young king did not comment on her startling lack of speech and did not seem to notice her flashed cheeks, red with something other than the heat of the room and the dancing. He held her hand and waist tightly and led her with much authority during the dance. He was a good dancer, graceful and resolute, yet not half as entertaining a speaker as Lord Jon or the Smalljon had been. They danced one dance together, all the while avoiding each other's eyes and remaining silent. When the music stopped the King bowed his head, took her hand in his and led her up the dais to her sit. He did not sit himself, however, but turned to her father instead, bade him good night and withdrew for the night. Before he left the room, Shireen caught his eyes looking at his sister; they exchanged a meaningful glance, and Shireen was certain beyond a doubt she owed the honor of dancing with the King of Winter to his older sister. She let a laugh escape her lips, and then she was more than ready to go to bed.

 

Theon walked towards the yard with resolution and an amused grin on his face. Sansa was furious with everything and everyone and Jon had advised him to take refuge where she was less likely to find him and make him pay for Rickon's debts. He had taken the advice and headed towards the training yard, but he was surprised to find the place already rather crowded; apparently Sansa has done good work of scaring all males away from the castle and at least 100 away feet from her. Even Jon was there, a scowl on his face. He got caught, the poor man, thought Theon and laughed.

 

Rickon, Bran, Jon, Stannis's Hand, some men of his Kingsguard and some of the household knights were all there, jerkins loose and swords at the ready. They did not use tourney swords, Theon noticed, but since the King and the Hands did not mind, why would he?

 

Rickon saw him approaching and motioned him to come in the yard.

 

"Up for a round with your King, Lord Theon Greyjoy?" asked Rickon, challenging him to refuse if he dared.

 

Theon took off his jerkin, loosened his shirt and unsheathed his sword. He charged at the King who met his attack, but did not badge. He used another technique then, one of those they had been practicing together, distracting him by walking to the left and delivering his attack to the right. Rickon saw it coming and dodged the blow neatly. When he attacked, Theon had to strain to meet his blows; Rickon was growing stronger by the day, he thought. Rather angry at himself for letting this little effect him that much, he held his sword in his other hand, continuing his attack on the right now. IT was a thing Theon did easily, changing sword hands while attacking, and it came to him naturally; not that much could be said for the people who faced him, for in the short space f time that too them to adjust to the new position of his sword, he attacked with all his might, sending his opponents to the ground either dead or cursing, depending on whether he held a real or a tourney sword. Rickon, however, apparently used by then to this sudden changed managed to get out of the way before Theon's sword hit him.

 

He laughed at Theon, who felt fury rising in his throat. He put his sword back in its sheath, leaving Rickon looking at him with a surprised expression on his amused face, and instead charged at him bare-handed. Rickon could only let his sword drop to the ground when he realized Theon's intent, but when his body met that of the King's they both went down like a sack of potatoes. Theon pinned him to the ground without much straggle, looked at him with eyes that meant business and then started tickling him.

 

Being ticklish was probably the most un-kingly thing anyone could ever be, yet as Rickon bellowed in desperate laughter, wriggling under his firm grip in an attempt to free himself and managing to deliver quite a few neat blows to his face and ribs, Theon thought what nice thing it must be, being young, clever, good-natured and a king. Soon, the whole yard was echoing with laughter, and Jon had joined in the fight along with the twins, so that now Rickon was facing the tickles of not one, but two men and two midgets. After a while, his laughter came out more exhausted than ever and his voice was hoarse when he yelled at them, calling them traitors and promising to behead them next thing after supper. When he yelled Sansa's name, all four of them froze in place and looked around, fearful they had been caught by the Queen Regent. During those few precious seconds, Rickon managed to escape from under their grip, pick up his sword again and challenge them to another round.

 

"You are dead already, so don't try to play brave."

 

Theon got up with a little help from Jon and walked over to where the rest of the Stark men were standing. He was soaking with sweat, he realized, and feeling drained of all strength. He collapsed on one of the benches, and Jon sat beside him with a grin on his face, panting and apparently just as tired.

 

"We are not as young as we used to be." he said, sounding rather forlorn at the realization.

 

"I don't know about you, old boy, but I am feeling good as new. Now call the midgets over here; I need them to carry me up to my room."

 

By then, Rickon was standing before them panting, sword still clasped in his hand.

 

"You will pay for this Greyjoy."

 

"What did you do now? Spill it. Sansa is furious, and you know what that means. Gods know, I am an old man and so is Jon and we cannot deal with her as well as we used to –no offence Targaryen. Somehow she manages to stay the same while the rest of us turn into miserable old goats."

 

Jon laughed lightly at his words, but there was no humor in his face.

 

"Take care Theon she doesn't hear about this. It will be the end of us both."

 

Theon knew the words to be true.

 

"So, what did you do, you little shit?"

 

By then the yard had cleared from Stannis's people and most of the Stark knights, with only Rickon's personal guard and the three of them remaining, the sun now on its way to setting, and the light sparse in the atmosphere surrounding them.

 

Rickon did not even pretend to be offended by his words.

 

"Don't ask me, for I don't know. I danced with the princess as you lot asked me to..."

 

When he did not go on, Jon intervened to speed up the process.

 

"And what did you think of her? What did you talk about?"

 

"We didn't talk."

 

"Why ever not? You both have tongues, don't you?"

 

"I…I could not think of what to say."

 

"I see…" said Jon, clearly unable to see. "Why didn't you ask her about the weather? Where she comes from people tend to find the North rather too cold for their tastes."

 

"And what good would that have been? I would have embarrassed her and she would have lied to spare my feelings."

 

"What about her thoughts on Winterfell then? There is a possibility she is going to spend the rest of her life here…"

 

"Again, she would have lied if she didn't like it and I don't like it when I am lied to."

 

"Oh, shut up! How would you know if she was lying to you, you prick? And anyway, had she lied you would have been able to dismiss her as a liar. Now _she_ thinks you are stupid and _you_ are none the wiser for having whirled her around in utter silence!"

 

Even Jon, who usually dismissed Theon's crude words with an exasperated shake of his head, seemed to side with him on this one.

 

"Theon is right. Try and be a little more communicative. The girl is probably scared and you haven't even given her a break, first ignoring her, then asking her to dance, then ignoring her again… What kind of a suitor is that?"

 

"I am not her suitor!" cried Rickon, all kingly pretenses now gone. He was too young, Theon thought, and he pitied the poor boy for having to deal with the burden of a political marriage just as he was beginning to become a good king for the North.

 

"Rickon, we know this is hard" said Jon, his voice softer and tinged with a little bit of sadness. "But it is your duty to marry and have children - heirs! - and if you manage to do it by establishing an alliance with Westeros we will all be the better for it –you, your family, your people. The training round is over. The real game begins now, and neither Sansa nor I nor anyone else can make such a decision for you."

 

Rickon's face had turned to stone while Jon spoke and now all Theon could make of his expression was resolve, and that was so very little part of Rickon's personality and so much part of the King's.

 

They had managed to ruin their evening all by themselves, no help from Sansa required.

 

For a whole week after her arrival Shireen walked the breadth and length of Winterfell, learned a great many of the castle's passage-ways and got acquainted with the Godswood, the Stark's closest people and their direwolves. Shireen claimed to have considerable experience with dealing with wolves owning to the time she spent with Arya and Nymeria, yet the well-trained and rather disciplined dire-wolf had very little in common with Ghost, Shaggydog and Summer.

 

Ghost she could faintly recollect from the time she spent at the Wall –the only recollection she had of it apparently; that and the red hair of a woman she knew she hated, but could neither remember her face nor her name and she knew better than to ask. The albino direwolf was as silent as his name indicated, and rather independent. He followed Jon around when he was performing his duties, but while he spent time in his chambers with Sansa or while he showed her father around Winterfell the direwolf was nowhere to be seen. Shireen knew, however, that he was never far off, and at the first danger, he would be there to defend his master, baring his long teeth and sowing off his large paws.

 

Summer, on the other hand, Bran's wolf, never left his side. Meera seemed accustomed to its presence, often patting him on the head, or scratching him behind his ears; the twins tortured the poor animal by climbing on its back and pulling his ears. The direwolf bore everything with silent grace and stayed forever by Bran's side. Shireen was not afraid of him; as long as Bran was around, the animal was as docile as a pet dog.

 

The same could not be said of Shaggydog. The name was pretty much the only docile thing about that direwolf, who bared his teeth at whoever came too close to Rickon and growled a special growl for her King father and his personal guard. Rickon seemed to have firm control over the animal and this was exactly what scared Shireen more than anything else. The direwolf seemed to sense her relationship with his master, for whenever she happened to pass by, he looked at her with cold eyes and a sarcastic grin on his wolfish face; surely, she was imagining it…

 

Rickon was still pretty much ignoring her. He would bow his head when he met her by chance, and she would sit by him during meal-times, yet she soon realized there was no point in waiting for him to speak -it was simply not going to happen any time soon. She also realized that the King of the North was not a great talker in general. When he spoke with her father it was on subjects bound to interest a king and a king alone, things he knew well himself and things he knew he had to relate to the father of his betrothed –not that they had officially announced their betrothal yet. When he talked to his sister, it was only to answer a question or other of hers. As a rule, however, he did not seem to speak if not forced to.

 

Shireen did not know how he spent his spare time, or what interests he had. When he walked around the castle it was always in the company of Shaggy; he rarely seemed to be alone, in any case, for he entertained her father and his other guests, inspected the grounds with Sansa and Jon, or trained in the yard with Theon and his knights. More often than not, Ser Marten would be by his side, silent and unobtrusive as a shadow, always vigilant in his care of the King. Shireen thought Rickon hated his very sight.

 

She counted herself lucky if she could spend her mornings wandering around the grounds with Ser Davos or Ser Rodrik who never left her side. She would usually have lunch with Brandon, Meera and the twins and spent her afternoon in Meera's solar, knitting and talking. She found it easy to be friends with the couple, and if she was eventually to leave, she knew she was going to miss their company.

 

Sometimes, Sansa would join them, although generally the Queen Regent was rather busy. Shireen soon found out Sansa was not half as austere as everyone thought her to be. She was young and clever, but burdened with too much responsibility for a person her age. Jon was constantly by her side, of course, aiding her in what little ways he could, but he was still the Hand, and his responsibilities were no less than those of Sansa.

 

They seemed to love each other as much as Bran and Meera obviously did, yet they were much more constrained in their displays of affection. Shireen thought their nature did not allow them to be overly enthusiastic when others were present. If one were to observe, however, they would soon notice that whenever Sansa was upset, Jon would press her hand lightly under the table, or smile at her affectionately, before continuing on his way or with his work. Sansa seemed much more constrained than Jon in that respect. Yet when she talked of Jon, or even spoke his name, her voice would become softer and her eyes much warmer.

 

Sansa was a perfect lady; she was fond of little details and she always made sure that the life in the castle was carried on according to protocol. Yet she was not a stiff person; she liked to laugh and she enjoyed the company of her family. Her greatest fear, Shireen thought, was appearing to be weak, and she went to great lengths to ensure that she was respected and feared. From what she learned from the servants, Lady Sansa had earned the respect of her people a long time ago; the fear of her enemies she was still trying to cultivate, however.

 

Shireen soon realized that Sansa was more or less a mother to Rickon. She would scold him, advise him, bring him back to order, and even take care of his daily wardrobe. Meera once told her that when Rickon returned to Winterfell after all the long time he had spent with the wildlings, his father murdered, his brother and mother butchered by people they considered friends, his home in ruins, it was Sansa who undertook to raise him, and she was determined he would not feel the loss as acutely as she did. She taught him to read and write, accompanied him every step of the way to becoming a King and still advised and occasionally ordered him around when she thought he was being a fool. She did a good job, apparently, for Shireen had never met a young man so well respected and so very much loved by his people. Sansa had sacrificed her chance to become a queen loved by her subjects in order to become the fearsome mother of a good king, and it was a sacrifice that had paid off, if Rickon the King was anything to go by. Rickon the man was another story entirely.

 

"He is positively wild, that boy." said Meera one rainy afternoon while they were sitting at her solar, knitting and waiting for Bran and Maester Samwell to arrive and keep them company, as they had promised.

 

"Not that he will let anyone see. Sansa has taught him well on that respect. It is frightening how good these Starks are at hiding their feelings. Even Jon, who was never entirely a Stark, is very skilled on that score."

 

"The servants all seem to respect the Starks. And Jon Targaryen."

 

"The Starks are very well loved all around the Kingdom. They are an old family; the first Kings, history says. And they are Kings once more and on their way to making the North one of the most powerful Kingdoms once more. Not to mention they are all pretty as buttons. Of course they love them and respect them. They care for their people, and the people can see. The North remembers, Shireen."

 

She grew up believing that love in a marriage was a matter of chance. Now Shireen thought about it, maybe having a husband she could respect as a king was not all that bad; she would have one thing more than her mother, at least.

 

Three weeks have passed since their arrival at Winterfell, and King Stannis was as anxious as ever to leave the North for his home and Kingdom. He was beginning to get impatient, seeing very little progress between his daughter and the young King, yet his decision was already made. The Starks were powerful and rich, that much was obvious. What was more, the Stark boy was on his way to becoming a strong King and an alliance with a powerful North only a decade after the end of the war was more than desirable; it was necessary. Arya Stark was going to become Queen of Westeros, and Stannis was determined to see the last true Baratheon girl become a Queen in the North. His daughter would marry the young king whether she wanted to or not.

 

Ser Davos could not contradict him on that respect. He saw the prudence of the match, and much more besides. He knew Rickon Stark to be wild and unruly, yet he was also clever, young, strong and had the support of people with much experience and good heads on their shoulders. He saw that both he and Shireen have been making a point of avoiding each other, yet he could not begrudge him his reluctance. He knew that to be trapped in a loveless marriage was one of the cruelest fates the Gods could ever deal a human; his King was a daily reminder of the truth of that matter. But Rickon Stark was no Stannis Baratheon. Whatever the Starks may be, he knew they were not cruel, and that they would try to welcome Shireen in their family regardless of whether Rickon loved her or not. If she could not find happiness with her husband, perhaps she could find it with the rest of her new family.

 

On their part, the Stark family seemed to like Shireen for the shy, unaffected girl that she was. He knew Sansa Stark would have never allowed her to spend another minute in the company of her trusted people and family were she not convinced of her potential to become a Stark herself.

 

And so, two days before the appointed time for their departure, Ser Davos asked for a private council with the Queen Regent and the Hand of the Kingdom of Winter. As it was, Jon and Sansa were ready with their answer. King Rickon would accept the proposal and the promise of King Stannis.

 

When he told Shireen that she was staying behind as the betrothed of Rickon Stark, the girl cried in his arms and he knew he was going to miss her.

 

Two days later they departed on their long journey to Westeros, and Ser Davos felt that perhaps a better time for all Kingdoms was dawning that day.

 

The last night of King Stannis' stay in Winterfell was a grand feast to celebrate the betrothal of King Rickon to Princess Shireen. The guests were many and important, and Shireen spent the whole of the night exchanging polite nothings with the ladies and accepting the congratulations of the lords. She did not have time to speak with her father or Ser Davos, who were in the centre of attention, even more so than Shireen herself. Her betrothed was his usual polite yet distant self. He had looked away towards large doors of the hall when her father announced their betrothal, and had patted Shaggydog several times on his head as if to calm him; Shireen thought he was soothing himself and not the dog, trying to find the patience in him to remain in the room and not bolt for the doors and the cold air of the world outside that castle. She knew, for she felt the same way.

 

The evening progressed rather more slowly than she expected; at about midnight she found herself alone at last. The table on the dais was empty but for her, everyone else visiting at the tables of one or other of the guests. Meera and the twins had already repaired to their room for the night, while Samwell, with whom she spent a great deal of her time, having discovered a mutual appreciation for music and books was sitting with Jon in a table filled with old acquaintances, most of them from the Wall. They were both laughing and drinking, and Shireen envied the men for their chance to have adventures and create stories out of them.

 

When she turned her head back to the untouched platter of food she had before her she was surprised to find Rickon sitting on his chair by her side. She had either been too engrossed or he was as silent as Ghost, for she had not hears any sound indicating his arrival. As it was, her surprise had gotten the better of her and she was looking at him now; still, what could she tell him? Congratulate him on his engagement?

 

"Are you tired, Princess?" he asked.

 

It took her some time to register the fact that he was speaking to her. _Great, now that he speaks to you he will think that you are stupid if you don't answer._

 

"It has been a long day, your Grace."

 

"I have been thinking… Would you mind if I called you by your name, Princess?"

 

Shireen was certain she looked short of flabbergasted. The fact that he talked to her was not so much a surprise as the fact that he seemed to have been thinking about their awkward situation. Then she berated herself for been so short-sighted; this was just as new and strange to him as it was to her. He was a king to be sure, but that did not mean getting married was easy business for him. The thought gave her courage.

 

"No, your Grace. I would like that, actually" she said, opting for honesty and straightforwardness.

 

"And you may call me Rickon" he said after a pause.

 

It was like dealing with a scared wild animal; she was afraid he might sink into his silence any time and she wished to keep him talking for as long as possible. But to push him for conversation would only make things worse if he was not inclined to talk to her any more. She had seen how very discomfited he looked when Sansa plagued him with her questions, and their relationship was nowhere as close.

 

She was willing to take her chances, she decided.

 

"How old are you Rickon?"

 

Well, that was not a very promising start. Rickon looked at her with eyes slightly surprised at the unexpected question. Was she supposed to know? Perhaps her Septa had told her but she was never paying her much attention; or Arya. Yet she could not remember for the life of her and it sounded like a casual, neutral question –in her mind, at least.

 

"I am nineteen; or so Sansa tells me. And you are twenty."

 

It was not a question, but his subtle way of telling her that this was something she should have known. Apparently _he_ knew those things about her. Most probably Sansa had made a point of teaching him as much about his future wife as possible. Knowing her, she must have a thorough job, and Shireen felt the sudden impulse to discover to which extent exactly Rickon was aware of her existence.

 

She blushed at her own courage at feeling that way, but her mind was made up, and she would try and make as much of this little opportunity as possible. If she didn't get to know him now, after the wedding would simply be too late.

 

"Arya has told me many things about your family. I feel I know you a little already."

 

"When Arya and I were separated, I was too young. I would be lying if I said I remembered her at all from back then."

 

"But she does! She told me once how you were always running around on Shaggydog's back and how your mother would run behind you, trying to stop you from hurting yourself. And how you liked spending time with your older brothers, but they would not have much patience with you, because you were too little to play the games they did. And how Sansa braided your hair so that you looked like a girl…."

 

Shireen's voice trailed off. She could not tell how all these small little details of Arya's stories had come to her mind after so long. They were there, however, and they were true. She could practically hear Arya's voice in her head, telling her how infuriated their mother would be after Bran and she managed to escape from the servant's supervision and ran into the Godswood, little Rickon at their heels; how they climbed up trees that were too tall for them or how they would steal food from the kitchens for their direwolves or how they tortured old Maester Luwin by hiding in his study or stealing his keys.

 

It sounded like a happy childhood.

 

When Shireen lifted her eyes to look at Rickon, she was surprised to find he had a smile on his face –or rather something between a smile and a grin. Whatever it was, it made his blue eyes sparkle and his handsome face look younger, almost boyish. It was also an amused expression, clearly meant to tease her. He had obviously not expected her to know such things of him, and it was almost as if he was making fun of her interest.

 

"Well, I suppose Arya forgot to mention how old I am after all that talking." he said, and for the first time Shireen heard teasing in his voice. _Well, I will take teasing over cold disregard any day_ , she thought.

 

They did not speak again that night. Soon her father and Sansa joined their company and she somehow felt convinced Rickon would never let them see he was making an effort with her. She decided she did not care, as long as he _was_ willing to try. When they parted for the night in front of the large wooden doors, Rickon shot her the grin he had when she spoke of his childhood, clearly much better informed that he was. Shireen felt hope for the first in a very long time.

 

Sansa visited Meera in her solar first thing in the morning after the feast. She was in an exceptionally good mood, owing to the success of the feast but mostly to the departure of their guests. She smiled when Meera told her Robb and Ned had kicked King Stannis on the shins when he dared call them little ones, but berated them all the same for their lack of manners, before giving orders to the servants to prepare honey-pies for desert – the twins could practically live off honey-pies.

 

"What did you think of Rickon and Shireen?" she asked at last. Meera was not pleased to inform her that they seemed as cold and distant towards each other as ever.

 

"I am certain Shireen would be more than willing to try and make their marriage work. But he seems oblivious to her very presence."

 

"He did not talk to her once through the whole feast yesterday; did not even dance with her; did not even look at her when Stannis announced their betrothal!"

 

"Sana, I think we should give them some time and space to get accustomed to each other. For the past three weeks, Rickon had to face Stannis and his relentless questioning, not to mention the realization that he would soon have to marry a total stranger. And Shireen had to face being in Winterfell for the first time; not to mention you Starks are quite overwhelming company. Do not despair, good-sister; not yet."

 

Sansa smiled at her with relief. Apparently, the Queen Regent was desperate to share her hopes on the matter.

 

After Sansa left, Meera half expected Shireen to visit her in her solar, until she remembered the princess usually took advantage of the morning light to explore Winterfell. Now that Ser Davos was away, however, she feared the girl would feel quite lonely. She sent a servant to inquire after her and soon found that the princess was in the Godswood, playing with Ned and Robb. Meera made her way to then not long after and found them laughing and running and shouting. Meera had been afraid the twins would be mean to Shireen because of the black on her face. Indeed, at first that had found it rather strange and were ready to be afraid of her. Bran had to put forth all his powers of reasoning to be able to convince them that Shireen had simply been unlucky when she was very young, and that her black skin was not the result of magic, but the remnants of a bad illness. Since then none of them had said another word on the matter, and meeting her day after day they had made friends with her and now sought out her company, for she was kind and patient and rather fun when she was not among the other grown-ups. She knew stories and games and she could sing. She was fast when she ran and she could climb trees when no-one looked. She also liked honey-pies, which apparently she could make herself and had promised to teach them. The twins had told her as much, and Meera had decided to keep her meetings with the twins a secret. The girl had told her nothing and it seemed unfair to betray her secret.

 

Yet curiosity had taken the better of her, and as she followed the voices of the twins, she tried to make as little noise as possible. She found them sitting at the edge of the pond, looking at their reflections with mild curiosity. Shireen was sitting in the middle, holding in each hand the arm of each twin, fearing they would fall in, careless and reckless as they were.

 

She stood at a safe distance and behind the trunk of a large tree, inspecting them from afar with great satisfaction.

 

"Thireen, we heard you were going to marry King Uncle Rickon yesterday. Is it true?"

 

"Yes. Would you like to have me as your aunt?"

 

Ned seemed to be thinking about it. Finally, he said with as serious expression as his face could ever produce

 

"I think I shall like you as an aunt. You are good as a friend too, though."

 

"Thank you. You are good friends, too."

 

"I like you, too, Thireen. You can tell us apart, which is nice." said Robb.

 

It was true, Shireen had mastered the art of distinguishing between the twins with relative ease, and Meera liked her all the more for it.

 

"Do you love King Uncle Rickon?"

 

That was her Ned, alright, thought Meera. He had a knack for asking uncomfortable questions, that kid.

 

Shireen hesitated before answering "I hope I will be able to love him one day."

 

"Mother says it is people who love each other that get married."

 

"Sometimes it is more complicated than that."

 

Ned seemed to be pondering over that, too.

 

"I suppose it is."

 

Meera struggled to keep her laughter from leaving her throat. That boy was too clever by half. _Like his father_ , she thought.

 

But then Robb went on "You know, you can always marry us! We will keep you safe and we will love you. That is what husbands do, says Father."

 

"Your Father is a wise man. But I do not think I can marry you both."  
"Why not?"

 

Shireen had obviously offended their sensitive sense of honor.

 

"For one, you are too young. For another, a woman can marry only one man and a man can only marry one woman. If he is to love her and protect her well enough, that is."

 

After some thought, they both nodded their understanding.

 

"Well, does King Uncle Rickon love you then?"

 

"I….I do not know, Robb."

 

"Well, we can always make him, Thireen!"

 

"It is true! I am a better fighter than he is; he has told me so himself!"

 

Shireen laughed lightly at the absurd speeches of the twins, kissed their cheeks and stood up. Meera hurried quietly towards the entrance of the Godswood. She has come to see how Shireen was fairing as a play-mate for her sons and she was leaving with more information she had ever imagined to gain. She smiled as she walked and she was still smiling when Bran met her in her solar later the same morning.

 

Jon was grateful for the shade produced by the trees that grew at the edge of the training yard. _Summer is upon us_ , he thought as he whipped the sweat off his forehead and sat on the nearest bench to calm his breathing and stretch his legs. He had just finished fighting a round with Rickon; he won, yet it was only his greater experience that saved him against his brother-cousin's strength and speed. The boy was shaping up to become a good swordsman and time would only add to his skills. Jon was glad they had managed to teach him well enough to bring out the talent in him. Not long after, Theon joined him on the bench,, panting and sweating.

 

"The brat is getting better every day. He might manage to beat us in a dozen years or so."

 

"Sooner than that, I would think."

 

"Did you see him talking to Shireen at the feast? I was beginning to think he had no interest in women at all that boy."

 

"I did. Theon, don't tell Sansa. She didn't notice and neither did Meera. It is better that way. Whenever they try to help things along, they end up making it worse. Rickon will never talk to her again if they start meddling in the affair."

 

Theon looked offended.

 

"You may be married to Sansa, but I have lived with her for far longer than you have, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Don't worry; I will not let her know."

 

Jon sighed and fixed his eyes on the King. He was young, handsome and he had grown up to become as good a man as they could ever hope for. This reluctance of his to accept Shireen was not surprising, but his persistence in avoiding her was. Perhaps Sansa's over-enthusiasm had had a much worse effect than he feared. The fact that he talked to her at the feast was a great step forward. Perhaps he had taken Theon's and his words at heart. In any case, he was not willing to let anyone interfere with Rickon's attempts to get to know his future wife, not even Sansa. However, to give the young couple a small, discreet push would not be out of hand –well, not out of this Hand, anyway.

 

"Do you know where Shireen is now?"

 

"I can find out. Does the Lord Hand have something in mind?"

 

Theon was always fast to catch on and a strong mind when it came to mischief. He also kept his mouth shut about it, which was another virtue Jon appreciated in him.

 

"I do, actually. We will need to be discreet and subtle."

 

"I can do discreet and subtle."

 

"No doubt. Why don't you make sure Lady Shireen comes through the yard as she takes her afternoon walk tomorrow? I think it will be good to see whether our King will acknowledge her in public. We will proceed from there on."

 

"Of course, my Lord Hand."

 

"Do your best, Master of coin."

 

Shireen was alone in her solar when Theon Greyjoy knocked on her door that afternoon. She had just finished her eating alone, for Brandon, Meera and the twins had left Winterfell that morning for a picnic in the woods. She had refused to accompany them saying she had a slight headache; she didn't want to impose upon the fun the little family was bound to have while spending time with each other.

 

"Would you care to join me for a walk on the grounds of the castle, princess? As master of coin, it is my duty to inspect the people that work for the King once in a while. It would be god for you to get to know the people that work for your betrothed. You will be their Queen before long."

 

Shireen had agreed with alacrity, for she hoped she would be useful to Rickon as a queen, if not as a wife. In any case, if she was not to find love in her husband, she could still be a good queen for the people of the North.

 

Theon proved to be much better company than she expected. He had a clever comment for everything, and when he chose not to be crude, he was extremely witty and diverting. Shireen had soon realized Theon had a very soft in his heart for beautiful woman, and she was not that, yet they had managed to interact without giving offence with each other, and that was more than she could say about any of her previous acquaintances that resembled Theon in any way. The heir to the Iron Isles was clever, cunning even. He had a mind for figures and Shireen thought nobody would serve better as master of coin. He knew personally most of the people working for the King and his intimate relationships with many of the servant girls had proven to his advantage, as he had eyes and ears everywhere in Winterfell.

 

They visited the armory and the stables, the glass-houses where the vegetables were produced, the carpenter's and the potter, and while Theon asked the men and women questions, she looked around the shops, met with the younger members of service and took an interest in the various techniques the masters used that were at times too different from those at home. At the end of their visits she could with certainty say it was the best time she has ever had while exploring the various places in Winterfell.

 

"That blasted armorer's apprentice has started becoming rather cocky. Perhaps it would be better to keep a closer eye upon him; maybe another apprentice will be needed before long." said Theon more to himself than anything, Shireen found herself smiling, however, and telling him how she envied him his occupation.

 

"Envy? Why, is there a better occupation than that of women? Sitting around all day, knitting, birthing children and driving their husbands crazy! Why would you be envious of my torment, princess?"

 

Shireen laughed, for she had by then started to distinguish between the times Theon was being sarcastic to the times he was being blatantly honest.

 

"I would like to have a worth-while occupation, that is all; something to help other people by."

 

"You will be a Queen soon; you will be working for the good of everyone then" he said, visibly more serious than before.

 

They had started towards the castle again, and Theon was following a route that would take them through the yard and to the main entrance of the castle and not one of the smaller ones closer to her rooms, that she used.

 

They were talking about horses and Theon was asking her whether she had ever gone hunting when they reached the training yard. It was empty but for the Master at Arms, Ser Marten, Jon and Rickon. The men had stripped off their tunics and were fighting with their shirts loose; Shireen noticed their swords were not tourney swords. She thought Northerners were rather strange in that respect. They were obviously fighting just for practice, their movements slower than they would be in a real fight and with no intention to harm one another. When she said as much to Theon, who had stopped led her in the yard and bade her sit for a while that they might rest under the shadow of the trees, he laughed, but answered her seriously all the same.

 

"You have a sharp eye, princess. You are right, we rarely use tourney swords. At least, we do. The young ones use wooden swords to build their strength. But to build skill, one must work with a blade; for the blade must become the extension of one's arm. Only then can a man boast he knows how to yield a sword. Then again, if he is truly good enough, he will never boast."  
"Would you like to join the others? I can walk myself back to the castle."

 

"No princess. But perhaps you would care to? Do you know how to use a sword?"

 

The question rather startled her, for it was not something usually did, learning how to use a sword. Then again, it was the North. When she answered in the negative she felt strangely ashamed of her ignorance.

 

"Well, Sansa is nowhere around, so it is safe if you would like to try."

 

So it was not something ladies did in the North either. Theon was looking at her with eyebrows raised. He obviously did not think she would dare try; he had asked her, however, and she was determined to show him that a Baratheon was never afraid to take up a challenge.

 

Shireen stood up and put her hands over her eyes to shield them from the bright afternoon sun. She was looking at the clear blue autumn sky and she as she was making her decision.

 

"Lord Theon Greyjoy, I would very much like to take you up on your offer."

 

Theon smiled at her –a real, mischievous, absolutely Theon Greyjoy smile- and stood up. He walked over to where the Master at Arms and Jon stood watching Rickon and Ser Marten clasp swords, talked to them in a conspiratory manner and returned soon after, still smiling.

 

"The Master at Arms will be more than pleased to help you in your first steps as a trainee knight, he says. But your clothes, princess, will simply not do. Come."

 

Shireen felt strangely excited as she followed Theon back into the castle and towards the kitchens. He knew that fencing was frowned upon when exercised by ladies. She knew it because Arya, who was a great fighter with a sword –everyone said so, even her father, who more than criticized her choice of past-time- was looked down upon by the other ladies of court. Shireen had spent most of her life intimidated by those very same ladies and their sneers. The day she had decided to try and become a good Queen for her future people was the day she decided to face all her innermost fears. And letting her desires be clouded by thought of 'what others would say' was one fear she had to overcome now, or she never would.

 

Theon and his servants provided her with a clean set of breeches, a shirt and tunic and warm, woolen socks. She took them up to her room, wore them in haste, put on her riding boots, fixed her hair in a braid that covered her patch and carefully made her way to the back entrance, where Theon waited for her to accompany her to the training yard. He shot her an appreciative glance when she emerged from the house, but kept otherwise silent.

 

"These belonged to Rickon. He outgrew them a couple of years ago, but Sansa insists on keeping them. Well, it is as well for our purpose. How are you feeling?"

 

"Strange" was all she could say.

 

"I suppose it is the same as a man wearing skirts. Quite uncomfortable…" he replied with a knowing smile. Shireen chose not to dwell on that little revelation. Theon was surprising her left and right that day.

 

When they reached the yard, all four men were sitting on the benches under the trees, apparently waiting for her arrival. Jon greeted her with a smile, Ser Marten and the Master-at-Arms with a bow of their head. Rickon inclined his head to her direction; it took him a few moments to realize she was not wearing women's clothes but breeches; what is more, his clothes. His eyes widened for some fractions of a second, but he made no indication he was displeased or bothered by her presence.

 

"Lord Theon says you wish to learn how to yield a sword, princess."  
Shireen shook her head in agreement.

 

"I have never even touched a sword before" she said.

 

The Master-at –Arms scrutinized her form head to toe before pronouncing his verdict.

 

"To be sure, princess, you are a well-built lass. I will give you a wooden sword, and if you can lift that, we will begin teaching you the basics; how to hold it, how to…"

 

"You will give her a tourney sword. She is not a child, and she looks strong enough to me."

 

"Your Grace, she has never used a sword before! She may hurt herself. Swords, even with blunt edges are no toys. You know as much."

 

Rickon did not say anything, but he did look at the poor old knight with a rather stern look on his face. _King Rickon_ , Shireen thought.

 

In about ten minutes she was standing in the middle of the training yard, tourney sword in hand, Jon showing her how to grab the sword in her god hand, Theon instructing her on how she should place her legs, and Rickon simply looking on from a afar. He had his hands crossed before his chest, but the look on his eyes spoke his interest. Perhaps he half expected her to kill herself with the tourney sword; _well, that would be a good way to get rid of me_ , she thought bitterly.

 

After about an hour she could say with certainty she had made little progress and was feeling as tired as she had ever felt in her entire life. When the men decided she had had enough, and after congratulating her on her courage, Shireen decided it was time to leave them to themselves. She thanked them, bowed her head and made her way towards the castle alone, feeling every muscle of her body tense and aching.

 

"I think she has talent" said Jon, a small teasing smile on his face.

 

Ser Marten nodded his head in agreement. "Have never seen such a graceful woman with a sword."

 

Theon had been struggling to keep a straight face for hours. He thought a small teasing smile was allowed him, as well.

 

"I never thought she had it in her. And what a fine figure! The dresses do her no justice; she should always be wearing breeches."

 

"Indeed, she looked lovely" added Jon, smile spreading even wider on his face.

 

"Had I been twenty years younger, I would have courted that young lady for certain. You are a lucky man, your Grace." teased the old Master-at-Arms, quick to catch on with their plan, apparently.

 

They all looked at Rickon then, who had told nothing so far and who was looking rather sullen all of a sudden.

 

"I am going to wash" he announced and left off towards the direction of the castle.

 

"That went well" mused Jon, looking rather pleased.

 

"If I know him at all, he likes her alright. Now, we have to wait."

 

"Theon, truer words you have never uttered. Good work, my friend."  
Jon patted him on the back, picked up his sword and made his way to the armory.

 

_He likes her alright. Let's hope he realizes it before too long._

 

Shireen first heard then saw the large animal coming towards her. Shaggydog had never been particularly enthusiastic about her, yet he was following her now, catching up with her and matching her pace, brushing his side to her legs with every step forward he took. Shireen was startled at first; she was surprised to see him, especially since Rickon was nowhere around. He made clear, however, that he was there in peace, for her brushed his head against her fingers, inviting her to stroke his ears, and she soon found that she rather liked having him follow her in silence, his presence comforting and reassuring.

 

"Shaggy, to me." Rickon's voice was loud and commanding, and Shaggy left her side immediately to join his master, who had appeared out of nowhere and was now walking close behind her and toward the castle.

 

"He has simply been keeping me company, he didn't bother me. He is rather nice. I thought he growled at Baratheons as a norm, yet I think I might have misunderstood him, after all."

 

"Did you like it?"

 

"The sword-fighting? Yes! It was much more stimulating than I had originally expected."

 

"MY sister will not like it, when she finds it out."

 

"If she finds it out." said Shireen with a small smile, hoping Rickon would pity her and keep her secret.

 

"With Sansa it is never a matter of if, only a matter of when. She will not find it out from me, anyway. I can help you learn, if you like."

 

"I would like that."

 

"Good."

 

They had reached the second floor by then and Shireen would have left, when she remembered it was his clothes she was wearing; _one of Theon's tricks, no doubt_.

 

"You can keep the clothes", he said, as if he read her mind. He bowed, turned around and left, taking the stairs to his cambers two at a time.

 

Shireen's thanks was drowned under the sound of his footsteps.

 

For the next few days Shireen trained in the yard with Rickon and Theon –sometimes even Jon- after all the other men had withdrawn to their chambers or resumed their duties. They taught her how to carry the sword with only her one hand, how to stand side-face, how to attack and how to dodge the attacks of enemies. She was quick to learn and did not shy away from pain; growing up that was the one thing she had learned to withstand.

 

They never talked much during training. She was glad, however, whenever Rickon walked her up to her room, for it was then that they talked, even for a little, about things more personal and closer to their hearts. It was during those short walks that she learned that Rickon spoke the language of the wildlings, that he had a large scar on his upper abdomen and that he liked horses –breeding and riding them. Shireen told him in turn that she loved music and books, that Winterfell was the furthest away from home she has ever been and that learning how to sword—fight was the most alive she has felt in a very long time.

 

She hoped he cared even a little.

 

"So, when is the wedding to be?"

 

Sansa's question should not have taken him by surprise, yet it did.

 

"I thought you had already decided on the day."

 

"No, I haven't. You can decide that on your own, I should think. Would you perhaps like to ask Shireen?"

 

Shireen. He had only just begun getting accustomed to her presence. He thought of her as a friend perhaps. Was he ready to make her his wife, though?

 

"No. You can very well make the necessary preparations by yourself, right?"

 

"I can; I will. But what I am asking is whether you are ready –both of you."

 

They had managed to create a balance, he and Shireen; it was a precarious balance and a strange relationship. Not yet friends but no strangers either; and he would be lying if he said he did not find her company at least interesting. He didn't want to ruin their balance by asking her to marry him.

 

'I will talk to her." he said finally. There was no way he could avoid Sansa for too long; better get it over with.

 

He found Shireen standing alone in the training yard, tourney sword in hand, practicing one of the moves he had taught her not a few hours ago. The yard was almost completely dark, the only light coming from the torches illuminating the perimeter of the castle.

 

She seemed surprised to see him there, but did not stop her training and he just stood there for a while, looking at her, an unexpected feeling of pride brewing inside him as she performed move after move with perfect certainty and great skill.

 

"Sansa would like to know if you have any preference concerning the date of the wedding… She thinks two months from now will do."

 

It was obvious she never expected him to broach the subject on his own accord –not unless forced to. A frown formed on her face, and she dropped her hands at her sides. She let the sword drop to the ground, in a sign of resignation.

 

Rickon did not like it that she looked so depressed all of a sudden. He had not realized she considered wedding him such an awful fate. The feeling of pride turned to anger in a split second and his stomach clenched; so did his fists.

 

"You can think about it."

 

"When would you like for the wedding to take place?"

 

"I… do not know."

 

He had not expected her question, and he answered her honestly.

 

"We can wait."

 

"Do you want to wait?"

 

The words were out of his mouth before he could control himself.

 

"I know I will have to marry eventually; whether sooner or later, it does not signify. Not to me. I know to you it is the difference between night and day."

 

"A king is obliged to marry as much as a lady is; even more so."

 

Rickon had never thought of himself as bitter; his voice told him otherwise.

 

"I am sorry you have to do it" she said, and Rickon wanted to slap himself for being so thoughtless of her feelings.

 

"I will let her know that two months are fine."

 

"Please, do."

 

 _Badly done, Rickon, badly done._ He patted Shaggy on the head and motioned for him to leave. After shooting Shireen a last wistful look, his traitor of a direwolf followed him inside the castle.

 

After that day, Shireen stopped coming to training; at least, that was what he thought until he found out that she was training with Theon every morning before lunch. He felt a pang of something he had not felt before in his stomach and he realized how very little he liked Theon at that moment; so little in fact, he would have punched him in the face for smiling with so much self-satisfaction had they not been in a room full of people.

 

"How is she going on? Last time I saw her, she appeared much improved."

 

Jon was apparently very interested in Shireen's progress.

 

"She is a fast learner; it doesn't hurt that she has a good teacher."

 

"I think Sansa already knows; she hasn't talked about it yet, however. I think if you continue being discreet, she will turn a blind eye."

 

"How could she have possibly found out? No women come out in the yard as a rule."

 

"Servants see and servants talk. And you have been loading her with so many of your old clothes; somebody is bound to notice she has more breeches than she does dresses."

 

"She looks good in them. And she cannot always be wearing the same pair."

 

"What do you think, Master of coin? Can we afford a new sword for the princess? And perhaps a new pair of breeches?"

 

"I think we do. She will like it, I know that much. She is the least silly female I have ever met. Were she prettier, I would have been tempted to steal her from right under your nose, your Grace." Theon said with mock respect.

 

"Theon…" cautioned Jon. Rickon was already on his feet, however, and now the entire dining hall was looking at him.

 

"Watch your tongue, Lord Greyjoy. Respect your future queen not only in deeds, but in words also; unless you wish to lose that tongue." His voice was barely more than a whisper, calculated to be heard only by Theon and the rest of the men at his table, if they chanced to listen.

 

He pushed back his chair and left the dining hall, aware that half the room was staring at him, the other half at Theon.

 

"Did you have to provoke him that much?" Jon asked, clearly upset at the way the evening had proceeded and ended.

 

"The boy is more a fool than I have ever expected him to be."

 

"He is confused, I should think. I had never expected you would become so sentimental about it, Theon."

 

Theon snorted loudly, yet he did not contradict him. After a while, he said

 

"I like the princess. She is as stand-up as any man."

 

Theon got up and left the room, as well, then. He found Rickon in the training yard, practicing alone with his sword.

 

"You are the greatest fool, your Grace."

 

Theon saw the menace in his eyes, but did not stop.

 

"It is alright to like her; she is going to be your wife, in any case; you might as well enjoy it. But you have to show her. You might be surprised; she may just like you back, as well."

 

"I…"

 

"Don't you dare tell me you don't like her, you little shit. I raised you along with Sansa from a wildling to a King, and I know you better than anyone else. If you are a coward, then face the truth of it and stop being jealous of other men. If you do not pay her attention, she will eventually find attention elsewhere."

 

Theon could almost see the workings of Rickon's mind as he considered his words. After almost five minutes, he nodded his understanding.

 

"What if she doesn't want me? I don't want to force her…"

 

"You will never know unless you ask. And I propose you don't wait until you have her naked in your bed and she has no other choice than to have you."

 

Rickon found Shireen sitting on the edge of the pond the next morning, the twins running around in the Godswood, climbing trees, ruining the flowers. As soon as they saw Shaggy, they had him by the ears in seconds, pulling him to his belly and straggling to mount him like a pony. But Rickon needed a diversion and so poor old Shaggy would have to suffer.

 

She seemed surprised to see him. He must have startled her, for she let a small noise escape her throat, but Rickon pretended not to notice. He sat beside her and was thinking on how best to open the conversation, when she forestalled him; apparently, she was as much preoccupied on the subject as he was.

 

"The wedding is in a week. Arya wrote word they will be arriving in two days."

 

He nodded, for he had just learned as much from Sansa. He was glad his sister was coming to Winterfell, yet he could not bring himself to think about her now; not about anything else, really.

 

"Are you ready for it?"

 

"All necessary preparations have been made; yes."

 

"I…do not mean wedding preparations. Are you quite ready to marry yet?"

 

_To marry me, that is._

 

"What use is that question now, Rickon? We are getting married in a week and I do not think anyone cares whether we are ready for it or not."

 

She was upset; _better than indifferent_ , he thought. _Don't be a coward old boy. It is just a question._

 

"Will you mind marrying me very much Shireen?"

 

Shireen could not believe her ears. She was too surprised to answer him; and after a while she thought perhaps she might have imagined it. But no, he was looking at her, expectation in his blue eyes.

 

"Will you mind marrying me very much?" he asked again, his voice faltering a little at the last word.

 

"No" she said, for she could not possibly explain to him in words how very little she would mind marrying him; that she wanted to marry him; that she wanted him to want to marry her.

 

He seemed to relax a little. His shoulders lost some of their tension, and his hands that were grasping patches of grass and flowers loosened their grip.

 

"No. That is, you are not half as bad as expected you to be. You may not be as handsome as I have imagined, but I think I can bear the sight of you."

 

She felt tears running down her cheeks, warm and thick. He used his thumbs to brush them away but did not make any other move towards her.

 

"I do not think I will mind marrying you very much, either. Of course, you are not half as clever as I have imagined, but I think I can bear you saying stupid things for a while."

 

He was smiling at her and looking into her eyes. And at the back of her mind, Shireen realized she had not thought of her patch for a long time; not since that day he had told her he would teach her how to fight with a sword.

 

The marriage took place in the Godswood at the appointed time. The crowd gathered for the ceremony was small and no surprises occurred to hinder the marriage in any unexpected way. Meera cried and Sansa smiled the way only a mother smiled at the wedding of her only son; Arya declared her utter disgust at the way Rickon stared at his bride and the way she smiled at him; Jon and Theon stood discreetly in the back, feeling proud for their small contribution in bringing about this marriage with both parties actually wanting it to come about. The twins smiled like the proper little lords that they were and Bran looked as proud of his little brother as he felt.

 

After Rickon had fixed the cloak of House Stark around Shireen's shoulders and kissed her timidly on the lips the ceremony was done and the feast began soon after. The night ended all too early for the anxious, inexperienced couple, that had insisted in avoiding the bedding. The elders agreed, quite probably wishing to spare Shireen's feelings. What they did not know was that Rickon was shaping up to be quite jealous of anyone looking at his wife with too much interest.

 

"Do you think you can bear spending the rest of your life with me?" asked Rickon with a crooked teasing smile. His wife replied with far too much honesty that she "would perhaps find a way to get rid of him sooner than that".

 

They found they liked teasing each other out of their shyness and reluctance.

 

"I don't think I would even mind making a family with you." said she.

 

"I may take you up on that offer then, for I do not think I would mind making a few children with you, as well." said he.

 

And perhaps, Shireen thought, her marriage would not be as hopeless as everyone thought it would be.

 

 


End file.
